Pyrophobia

by Jack Lance

  ‘Jason, you’re making me very unhappy,’ Brian protested. Today he sounded as unhappy as when he’d griped about his wife Louise backing out on their planned trip to Las Vegas. That had been one day after George, the mailman at Tanner & Preston, had handed Jason the first Polaroid photograph, the first in a series of three that had turned his life into chaos and that now prevented him from fulfilling his contractual obligation to the Automobile King.

  Brian, if only you knew what a macabre world I’m living in, Jason thought bitterly.

  ‘I’ll work evenings next week,’ Jason promised. ‘We’ll get the job done.’

  ‘Jesus, Jason, what the hell are you up to out there?’

  Trying to find myself, Jason thought, and then had to bite his hand to keep himself from laughing out loud.

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later.’

  Brian hung up on him without another word.

  ‘What’s next, Jason?’ Kayla asked.

  They were approaching a Starbucks. ‘Coffee, that’s what’s next.’

  Jason forgot to cancel his appointment with Mark.

  They drank their coffee watching people passing by outside. It was ten thirty.

  ‘Do you think that maybe he lives here?’ Jason mused.

  ‘Who?’ Kayla asked.

  ‘The photographer. If this city is the focus of this mystery, he is likely someone who knows a lot about Mount Peytha. Could be he lives here.’

  Kayla drew a lock of hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear. ‘Sure,’ she chuckled, not in humor. ‘Maybe he’s watching us, maybe even stalking us. Hey, who knows, maybe it’s that slacker of a motel receptionist. Or some guy we met in the street.’

  ‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘Point taken. It could be anyone, or it could be no one.’

  ‘Since we don’t know what we’re looking for,’ she concluded, ‘there’s no chance of finding it.’

  ‘That’s deep,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately, you happen to be right.’

  He studied grave after grave, walking up one lane and down another. The only clue he was seeking was the date the deceased had passed on to the afterlife. After sweating in the searing sun for ninety minutes, he had not found a single grave inscribed with the date August eighteenth. But there had to be a few, at least. As Chuck had said, there were thousands of graves here, and there were only 365 days in a year. Statistically, there had to be multiple grave sites bearing that date.

  The heat of the day intensified and the sunlight became ever more blinding, perhaps preventing him from seeing something horrible, such as someone hiding behind a gravestone. Possibly the photographer.

  Kayla was first to come across something. ‘Jason!’ she suddenly called from a distance, gesturing to him with both arms. He ran over to her.

  He looked at what she was pointing at: the grave of a man named Donald Luke. The clear lettering and numbers indicated that he was born on March twelfth, 1931 and died on August eighteenth, 2004.

  Jason crouched down. He felt no excitement. The name Donald Luke had no M in it. Nothing in Jason’s psyche reacted to the name or the grave, and besides, it was much too clean, too untouched by time, to have any similarities with the headstone in the photograph. When he glanced up at Kayla, he noticed from the corner of his eye that a procession of people had gathered about fifty yards down the lane. He had not noticed them before.

  ‘This can’t be it, Kayla. Look, the …’

  He fell silent as again his gaze was riveted on where he had seen people in the distance.

  Except, no one was there now. Where a moment ago had stood a knot of men and women was now an open, empty space.

  ‘This stone is much too new and undamaged,’ he said absently, ‘compared with the photograph.’ His eyes remained transfixed on where he had seen the people gathered.

  Kayla had not noticed them; otherwise she would have said something.

  He stood up. ‘Let’s keep going.’

  She mumbled something incoherent, shrugged, and continued walking.

  Half walking, half running, he crossed the fifty yards to the area where the small crowd had convened. He wondered what sort of vision he had seen. Around him, another ten or twenty gravestones jutted up from the ground. He wandered around searching for … what?

  Then he noticed a gravestone that was a little bigger than the other ones, and it had ‘ears’ – round shapes with notches at the corners. He scrutinized the names on the stone and the date of death. As he did so, he felt someone watching him.

  He turned on his heel, but saw no one.

  Then it dawned on him what had been wrong with the procession of people, other than the fact that they had disappeared so suddenly. They had looked different – and it was their clothes that made them look different. Jason didn’t know much about fashion, but he did know that the wide-brimmed hats and the flared pants the men had worn were from a different era, as were the short dresses worn by the women. Their clothing had been old-fashioned, at least to the eyes of his modern generation.

  His heart pounding, he turned back toward the grave marker and reread the names inscribed beneath the elegantly chiseled and moss-covered flowers on both the ears.

  C H A W K I N S

  ROBERT J.

  4 JUNE 1937–18 AUGUST 1977

  AMANDA Z.

  12 FEBRUARY 1943–18 AUGUST 1977

  MIKE W.

  29 JULY 1977–18 AUGUST 1977

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Separation

  That date, August eighteenth, took his breath away. That name, Mike, grabbed him by the throat. And what followed fell with the force of a sledgehammer.

  He was perspiring and could smell his own body odor. Kayla was walking toward him with a frown on her face, apparent even from this distance.

  ‘What’s the matter, Jason?’ she asked when she reached him.

  When he did not respond, she said, ‘You look pale. Are you going to be sick?’

  What’s happening to me? he wanted to scream, but the words were clogged in his throat.

  He crouched down and compared the stone with the Polaroid photograph. The similarities were obvious and easy to spot. The mossy layer, the cracks, the irregularities. This was the headstone he had been searching for. Absolutely no doubt about it.

  ‘Mike is Mawkee. Mikey,’ he said hoarsely. ‘He was a baby, only a few weeks old when he died on August eighteenth. The same date as the other two, Robert and Amanda. His parents, I think. They all died on the same day.’

  Kayla knelt beside him, but said nothing.

  ‘I saw people,’ he whispered. ‘Funeral guests. I can still sense something here.’

  She gave him a skeptical glance. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

  His mouth opened, then closed, once, twice, like a dying fish on the bottom of a boat. He shook his head. ‘I’ll explain, but you won’t believe me. There were people here. Maybe twenty, maybe more. They were all wearing clothes of an earlier era. I saw them, just for a moment. And then they were gone. Only, I think they’re not entirely gone, because there’s still something that’s not entirely right. Aren’t you cold?’

  He hugged himself, shivering. Despite the intense desert heat he was trembling from the cold. Kayla was staring at him in utter stupefaction.

  ‘It’s boiling hot, Jason.’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it’s not. It’s freezing cold.’

  He clenched his teeth.

  ‘Come with me,’ she said, taking his arm. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘How can we leave now?’ Jason growled. ‘We’ve found what we’ve been looking for. This is it. It’s about Mike W. Chawkins.’ He pointed at the gravestone. ‘He’s dead, he no longer exists. This is about him!’

  ‘You’re scaring me,’ Kayla said quietly. ‘Come along now.’

  She put a hand on his shoulder, but he brushed it off and remained where he was, crouched down, rubbing his hands for warmth.

  ‘Just look!’ he said angrily. ‘Look at the phot
ograph and then look at the gravestone. They’re one and the same. Even you should be able to see that.’

  She rose and took a step backwards.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she almost spat.

  ‘I am Mawkee, Kayla! Don’t you get it? This is my grave. I found it! The people I just saw were the people who came to my funeral. My own funeral procession.’

  He made a sound that could have been laughter, but came out more as a sob.

  Kayla took another step back.

  ‘I really want to leave this place,’ she said softly but resolutely.

  He shook his head again and sobbed. He could not stop himself. It seemed he couldn’t stop anything any more; he was losing his grip on reality, as if he was drunk or on hallucinating drugs.

  ‘Jason? Did you take those Polaroid pictures?’

  He froze. Suddenly his sobbing stopped, along with his shivers. Slowly he turned toward her.

  ‘What?’

  She stood there as if she were made of stone. She had her arms crossed over her chest, standing there between the gravestones. Her gaze was crushing.

  ‘You have two Polaroid cameras at home. You’re good with that kind of equipment.’

  ‘Have you lost your mind?’ he whispered hoarsely.

  ‘How odd you ask that. I was just wondering the same thing about you.’

  His anger rose like a rumbling volcano spewing from the depths of the earth.

  ‘I think you should go back to Mark,’ she stated emphatically. ‘You’re right. Something is not right. Maybe something is not right with you. Look, I’ve been supportive of you from the get-go. But then you start talking about a creature of fire. You have visions, or something. You see things that aren’t there. You even believe you’re dead. You think this is your grave. Please tell me what in the name of God I am supposed to make of all that?’

  ‘And so you assume that I’ve set the whole thing up myself.’

  He no longer felt like a raging drunk. He was stone-cold sober, and he could not believe what he was hearing.

  ‘Ralph said he would die young,’ she plowed on, oblivious to roadblocks or warning signs. ‘Where did that come from? How had the thought entered his mind? I’ll never know. And that will always bother me. Maybe he was making himself believe it. Maybe he knew about his heart valve. Maybe someone else had told him he would die young – God, or a twisted fortune teller, or someone who hated him. It doesn’t matter. The point is, he believed it. You believe you’re dead or will die soon. It’s the same wretched thing all over again, only this time there are photographs involved. Maybe you want to believe this so badly that you set the whole thing up yourself. What do I know? But whatever it is, I want nothing more to do with it. I’m done.’

  She made an axe-cutting gesture with her arm, and then she broke. Tears welled up in her eyes and she buried her face in her hands. She turned around and started walking away, quickly breaking into a run. He stared after her, stunned, standing on the green grass growing on top of his own grave.

  It felt as if Mike W. Chawkins were watching him to see what he would do next.

  By next morning they still had hardly spoken to each other.

  Despite the desert heat Kayla had walked all the way from St James Cemetery back to Mount Peytha Inn. Inside the room, she had turned on the air conditioner full blast and sat down in one of two chairs. He had returned around sunset, while the blazing orb of a yellow sun was dipping behind the mountains. He had calmed down, and so had she.

  But an icy silence remained very much in evidence. Instead of going out to dinner, they had remained in their motel room throughout the night. The next morning, nothing had changed. While she was in the shower, she decided to return to Los Angeles, no matter what. And she told him exactly that, when she stepped out of shower and into the bedroom and stood before him, naked.

  ‘I’m going home. Are you coming?’

  Slowly he shook his head.

  Streaming droplets were sliding down her body. ‘Please, Jason,’ she said, ‘let’s go see Mark. He’ll know what to do.’

  He looked at her, his eyes puffy from lack of sleep. ‘I can’t leave now, Kayla. Please try to understand. I’ve found my grave. Now I have to move on from there.’

  Kayla clenched her fists. She had to scream, and scream she did.

  ‘I’ve had enough,’ she cried hoarsely. ‘Enough! Do you read me?’

  A fresh wave of tears assailed her. ‘I really am leaving!’ she heard herself cry in no uncertain terms.

  He groaned. ‘Kayla …’

  She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists, her fingernails biting into the palms of her hands.

  Our marriage is destroyed. You, Jason, have wrecked it.

  She really believed it. Suddenly her love for Jason died; gone in a sigh, just as it had with Ralph. In its place came anger, rolling dangerously back and forth through her mind.

  I had to let go of Ralph, and you need to let go of this. Or else.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw Ralph’s body lying motionless beside her in the tent. Far from the nearest hospital, much too far away to save him. As she held his cold, lifeless hand, she kissed him one last time. And then she had wept long and hard. For the death of love, and for the death of peace in her life.

  A fog settled inside her head as she got dressed and packed her weekend bag.

  ‘I’m taking the Chrysler,’ she told him as a matter of fact. It was as though she was going to the store to buy groceries. ‘After all, it’s my car. You have your credit card. Will you fly home?’

  ‘I’ll get home somehow,’ he said. ‘But you’re not serious, are you? You’re not really going to leave me here?’

  ‘I’m doing this for you, and for us,’ she said, her tone of voice inviting no debate. ‘There is nothing left for me here. You’re better off without me.’

  It was ten fifteen; the day was still young. Outside, a desert storm had erupted. Clouds of dust were pirouetting. Palm fronds bowed before the wind, and tumbleweeds rolled across the sandy tarmac of the parking lot. Now and then the sun, fierce as ever on the torrid threshold between July and August, was hidden by the thick, soaring dust.

  He desperately wanted to discuss her decision, but since her mind was apparently made up, there was no point. She was in no mood to change her mind. Jason knew how headstrong she could be. Conversely, she knew the same about him.

  She picked up her car keys and bag. ‘I’m off.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m sorry I yelled at you in the cemetery yesterday, Kayla. I was not myself. I haven’t been since this damn thing started.’

  ‘Are you coming?’

  It was the third time she asked. The final time.

  ‘I have to look into these Chawkins people. Who were they? How did they die?’

  ‘So you’re staying here,’ she sighed.

  ‘Now that I have a lead, I don’t see how I have any other choice,’ he said. ‘And I want to find out what’s going on with me. Where did those hallucinations come from? If I don’t find the answer to these questions, Kayla, I will be no good to myself – let alone to you. So you see, my staying is for us both.’

  ‘You could ask Mark about this.’

  He looked down at his feet. ‘I will. I promise you I will. Later. I’m here at the source now. And I’m telling you, there is a photographer who needs to be exposed before August eighteenth. I have to make sure that nothing terrible happens on that day.’

  She nodded. ‘Have it your way. I’m leaving.’

  She crossed to the door.

  ‘Kayla.’

  She turned around.

  ‘Please be careful. I’d rather not have you home alone. You never know. Go stay at Simone’s house.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘Will you be careful, too? I don’t mind telling you that I’m not at all comfortable leaving you here.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.’

  Kayla considered giving him a kiss go
odbye, but decided against it. She opened the door and stepped outside into the gray, biting sandstorm. She leaned into the wind and walked toward the Chrysler.

  She got in, started the engine, and backed out of the parking space, looking at him the entire time. He had stepped outside, and was standing by the short wall in front of the motel.

  Kayla turned on to the road and kept looking at Jason in the rear-view mirror until she could no longer see him.

  Only then did she wipe her tears away.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The Chawkins Tragedy

  As he watched Kayla’s car disappear into clouds of dust, Jason leaned hard against the wall of the motel, afraid to take a step forward. He felt as if, at any moment, a trapdoor might open up before him and he would tumble into the depths.

  Kayla had left him. She had really gone.

  You’ve lost her forever, an inner voice reproached him.

  But what he had told her was true. Because he had come this far, he had no choice but to continue. And he knew where he would go first, just as soon as he was able to collect his thoughts and emotions.

  ‘Could you tell me a bit more about the Chawkins family?’ he asked an hour later. It was Friday morning the thirty-first of July, and he was back in Chuck Cleigh’s nicely appointed office. He had told the man that the Chawkins’ grave intrigued him because of how it tied to his genealogical research.

  Chuck sighed heavily. ‘Listen, Jason, I’m really sorry we haven’t called you yet. I don’t have time for this today. If all three of those people died on the same day, as you say, then there must have been special circumstances. But don’t ask me to delve into that for you. It’s not what I do.’

  The owner of the Cleigh Abbeville Funeral Home, dressed in faded jeans, sat behind the desk, drumming his fingers on the table. Jason knew that the man wanted him gone and that he could not – or would not – tell him anything.

  ‘Is there anyone else I could talk to?’ Jason asked. His voice sounded distressed, even to him.